THE AMERICA ONE NEWS
Jun 24, 2025 |
0
| Remer,MNSponsor: QWIKET
Sponsor: QWIKET
Sponsor: QWIKET: Sports Knowledge
Sponsor: QWIKET: Elevate your fantasy game! Interactive Sports Knowledge.
Sponsor: QWIKET: Elevate your fantasy game! Interactive Sports Knowledge and Reasoning Support for Fantasy Sports and Betting Enthusiasts.
topic
The Atlantic
1 Dec 1957
Padraic Colum
(MARKET PLACE, IRELAND, PRESENT DAY)
A basket maker, an itinerant,
His hands as supple as the rods he bended:
I stayed to buy the withied shape he made.
His hands as supple as the rods he bended:
I stayed to buy the withied shape he made.
And then a friend
Who had the lore of ancient fields and houses
Came to me there (It was a market place).
Who had the lore of ancient fields and houses
Came to me there (It was a market place).
Four arm-rings of gold
In box of alder bark were in his gleanings
Where the receding lake had left behind
A Bronze Age village; a quern in its place,
The grains it ground beside it — barley, wheat;
Two boar-tusk pendants and a piece of amber,
And under these, the woven hazel twigs
Laid down in summer, since the hazelnuts
Were not then filled; spindles and ox yokes. . . .
In box of alder bark were in his gleanings
Where the receding lake had left behind
A Bronze Age village; a quern in its place,
The grains it ground beside it — barley, wheat;
Two boar-tusk pendants and a piece of amber,
And under these, the woven hazel twigs
Laid down in summer, since the hazelnuts
Were not then filled; spindles and ox yokes. . . .
I thought them apt, the woven hazel twigs,
For there before us was a batch of them,
With rods that shone like amber — willow rods.
But these were not engaging to my friend:
He left me with the man of supple hands —
Two of us only in the market place.
For there before us was a batch of them,
With rods that shone like amber — willow rods.
But these were not engaging to my friend:
He left me with the man of supple hands —
Two of us only in the market place.
No tool but his own hands he had, a knife
That he had used since his apprenticeship
Which took him back, a youngster by the pool
Where no one bided but the water hen,
Or in a dell when hazelnuts were green,
And the wren showed the bulky nest he made
To his small mate. I watched him weave,
Rod over rod, no gaps between the ridges.
That he had used since his apprenticeship
Which took him back, a youngster by the pool
Where no one bided but the water hen,
Or in a dell when hazelnuts were green,
And the wren showed the bulky nest he made
To his small mate. I watched him weave,
Rod over rod, no gaps between the ridges.
And thought upon “the woven hazel twigs
Laid down in summer, since the hazelnuts
Were not then ripe”: “The basket on the arm
Of the old woman out for marketing;
The wicker round,” he said,
“In which potatoes from the pot are poured;
The creel that brings the turf up from the bog;
The kish that holds them by the fireside:
There’s no one marks them with a craftsman’s name —
Scanted they are as commons of the house.”
Laid down in summer, since the hazelnuts
Were not then ripe”: “The basket on the arm
Of the old woman out for marketing;
The wicker round,” he said,
“In which potatoes from the pot are poured;
The creel that brings the turf up from the bog;
The kish that holds them by the fireside:
There’s no one marks them with a craftsman’s name —
Scanted they are as commons of the house.”
And there it is — my thought come back to me!
You’re one that’s known
At doors, as is the thatcher or the weaver,
Or by the din you make, as the horseshoer,
Before your name gets into household speech.
For if you find and bring material
From willow-pool or hazel-dell far off,
And make a thing that is of shape and use
Without bystanders or the noise of tool,
You are not spoken of by men or women.
“The basket maker has no name,” he said.
But noteworthy. In Kerry glens, he told me,
Where grow the trees whose branches no one bends,
The old arbutus, the weavers’ bundles
Are carried in his creels on asses’ backs
Across the Reeks; the silver ring he showed me,
With two hands clasped, a Claddagh granny gave him
For baskets were a benefit to carry
Her fish to Galway in. And there he ended
His discourse and his task; he got his shillings
And I the withied shape was to my liking.
Where grow the trees whose branches no one bends,
The old arbutus, the weavers’ bundles
Are carried in his creels on asses’ backs
Across the Reeks; the silver ring he showed me,
With two hands clasped, a Claddagh granny gave him
For baskets were a benefit to carry
Her fish to Galway in. And there he ended
His discourse and his task; he got his shillings
And I the withied shape was to my liking.
I watched him go, his stock-in-trade upon him.
“I travel Ireland’s length and breadth,” he said.
There was dominion in the way he said it,
And in his even pace towards other roofs,
A basket maker, an itinerant.
“I travel Ireland’s length and breadth,” he said.
There was dominion in the way he said it,
And in his even pace towards other roofs,
A basket maker, an itinerant.